


Ortus/Occasum

by fanatic_by_definition



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, High School Graduation, Late-night excursions, Lots of sappy love confessions, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, patrick is 18 pete is 23, pre-TTTYG era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 13:02:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11486952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanatic_by_definition/pseuds/fanatic_by_definition
Summary: It doesn’t matter that they’ve been virtually inseparable since they met last summer at Patrick’s house, when the idea of having a real band was still a pipe dream. It doesn’t matter that they’re polar opposites who shade in each other’s missing colors. It doesn’t matter that sometimes Pete will look at Patrick in a certain way, the way he did just now, that makes it seem like Patrick’s stifled, constantly beaten-down feelings may be reciprocated. None of that matters.At least, that’s what Patrick tells himself.###Patrick graduates from high school. Pete climbs through a window. They watch a sunset and kiss under a concrete dock near a beach in downtown Chicago. And somewhere along the way, they realize what Patrick's mom and Joe have already accepted: that they're destined to be together.





	Ortus/Occasum

**Author's Note:**

> this was a birthday present for my Official Reviewer, who insisted this story wasn't as shitty as i thought it was while i was writing it and encouraged me to publish it, so here it is!! i know it's been forever since i posted anything, but after getting this plot (which i've had in the back of my head for a YEAR) out of my system, i think my creative juices might be flowing a little better again :) hopefully it won't be another eight months before i have another gift for you all!!
> 
> also i finally committed the most pretentious act a fic author can: i used a latin title. this one roughly means "sunrise/sunset" if you add "solis" in front of both words. 
> 
> i hope you enjoy this humble offering!! thanks for reading, as always :) :) :)

Polyester really doesn’t breathe at all. This is something Patrick’s quickly discovering as he mingles in a large but stuffy classroom with his fellow soon-to-be-graduates, most of whom are all separated into their usual cliques. He tugs uncomfortably at the flowy sleeves of his dark blue gown and wishes his mother hadn’t forced him to wear a long-sleeved dress shirt for this—not only are his arms and torso sweating already, but the cap on his head is making everything feel fifteen degrees hotter all on its own.

 _Why can’t they just mail out the diplomas?_ the teenager thinks miserably. He’s been fending off anxiety about tonight for months now—he loathes the idea of walking across a brightly-lit auditorium stage in front of his family and his classmates, most of whom have bullied him in some way at least once during the last four years. It all seems completely unnecessary. Patrick would much prefer a simpler ceremony consisting of taking his last exam, emptying out his locker, and walking out of his high school without looking back. Ever again.

It’s not like he’s got anything worth looking back for, anyway. No lasting friends, no girlfriends, _definitely_ no boyfriends—Patrick’s been bomb-diffuser careful to hide his bisexuality in school. If anyone had caught wind of it, getting stuffed in lockers might have turned into a broken nose and a black eye.

In short, Patrick’s thrilled to finally be escaping this oppressive, anxiety-inducing hellhole, but he’s not too happy with the way he’s being forced to escape it. Slipping away unnoticed would be much better than hearing his ugly last name read aloud to hundreds of people in an auditorium.

 _Stop freaking out,_ Patrick tells himself with a huffed exhale and a scowl. He rubs at his itchy eyes (his mom also convinced him to wear his contacts tonight, which he’s only worn twice before) and leans against the wall. The cool cinderblock feels heavenly against the flushed skin of his cheek; he closes his eyes and presses against it more firmly, tapping out the drumline of a song he’s been working on lately with his fingertips. He starts absently humming and closes his eyes, listening to the music in his head and letting it soothe his nerves.

He’s changed songs twice when his phone buzzes in the pocket of his dress pants. Confused, Patrick opens his eyes and awkwardly lifts up his robe to dig it out. When he flips it open, he sees a text from Pete, and his heart jumps in his chest: _where r u ricksterrr_

Patrick bites his lip to keep from smiling at the nickname. Pete Wentz is just about the only person in the world who has permission to call him anything but “Patrick” without getting a glare and a sharp kick in the shin. Patrick isn’t entirely sure how or why he started giving the bassist that luxury, but somewhere along the course of their year-long friendship it just sort of…happened.

Actually, no. The second Pete learned Patrick’s name, he’d conjured up about 352 variations of it right on the spot, including but not limited to Pattycakes, Stumpster, von Stump, Rick-ta-life, Tricky Ricky, and countless others. And for some reason, Patrick doesn’t really mind all that much. The names make Pete smile, and Patrick will always support anything that can accomplish that. Barring anything illegal or potentially dangerous, of course, which Pete doesn’t seem to understand. Patrick just insists that it’s his job as Pete’s best friend (he’s Pete-fucking-Wentz-from-Racetraitor-and-Arma’s _best friend_ now; which is fucking _insane_ ) to keep him from accidentally impaling himself on a fencepost or something.

 ** _I’m at graduation dumbass,_** Patrick texts back, wondering if Pete forgot this was happening tonight. **_At my school._**

_yeah i kno i kno where in da skool_

Patrick frowns in confusion. **_First floor, room 540, behind the auditorium. Why_**

_thts by the west parkin lot rite_

**_Yeah. Why pete_ **

_r there windows in tha room_

_nvm I found u cm let me in_

“What the f…?” Patrick blinks bewilderedly at the screen of his phone for a few seconds before looking up and getting on his tiptoes to see over the heads of his much taller classmates. The west wall of the room has a few windows in it, facing the parking lot, and Patrick is stunned to see a manically-grinning Pete knocking on the glass and waving. _Fucking dork,_ the younger boy thinks affectionately. A moment later, he jerks his head to the right towards the empty smaller classroom next door and mouths “Walk that way!” Pete stops waving, nods in understanding, and walks along the side of the building until he’s out of sight.

Patrick bites his lip and glances around. No one’s really paying attention to him—big shock there—but he still has to be discreet. Holding his breath, he casually shuffles sideways along the wall and sneaks out into the hallway.  The door to the other classroom is thankfully unlocked, so he turns the handle and slips inside, letting the door close quietly behind himself.

The room is full of dusty desks and bookshelves full of tattered textbooks line one wall. It looks like any other classroom in the school, but Patrick can’t think of any classes he had in here himself. It’s mostly dark, apart from the dusk light shining through the windows, one of which frames Pete’s beaming face. Patrick blushes and shakes his head in astonishment before weaving through a few desks to get to him.

The screen pops out a little too easily. Pete clambers inside with Patrick’s help before replacing it and locking the window; when that’s finished, he turns and grabs Patrick in a suffocating hug. “Dude, you’re like a furnace right now,” he mumbles in the teenager’s ear as a greeting.

“Polyester robe,” Patrick says, his voice muffled by Pete’s shoulder. He hugs Pete back, not minding the extra heat it’s causing, and fists his sweaty hands in the fabric of the older boy’s Metallica tee. “I fucking hate it.”

“I like it,” Pete replies, and Patrick can hear the smile in his voice. “It’s a nice color on you. The hat’s cute, too, but I still like the one I gave you better.”

Patrick just blushes darker and presses his face into Pete’s shoulder for a few more seconds, soaking in the contact. When he pulls back, he adjusts his cap and looks up at Pete incredulously. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Pete shrugs. “I went to Joe’s graduation last week,” he says simply, like that explains everything. “Wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t go to yours. That’s what best friends do, right?”

Patrick ignores the way his heart flutters at that. “B-But you don’t have a ticket,” he stammers.

“Well, duh,” Pete chuckles, rolling his eyes. “Why d’you think I had you let me in through a fucking window? Wait. It’s not breaking-and-entering if someone lets you in, right?” He scrunches up his nose in thought for a second or two, then shakes his head. “Anyway. Is there a route to the auditorium from here? I might be able to sneak in through the back doors towards the middle of the ceremony—the ticket takers should be gone by then. Patricia likes me, so maybe she’d let me sit with your family! I could watch from the back, too, if there aren’t any seats left. I wouldn’t wanna—‘Trick?”

Patrick only realizes then that he’s probably been staring at Pete with a stupidly besotted expression on his face through that whole monologue. For once, though, he doesn’t care. After a moment of speechless silence, he just reaches out and grabs Pete in another hug, burying his pink face in the older boy’s threadbare shirt. His emotions are going a little haywire right now, and if he tries to speak, he’ll either cry or laugh or kiss the breath out of Pete’s lungs like he’s wanted to practically since they met last summer.

He leans more towards crying when Pete hugs him back without missing a beat, laughing softly. “I love you too,” he teases, rubbing Patrick’s back with his large, warm hands. There’s a note of raw honesty in his voice, though, and it makes Patrick’s heart feel ten sizes too big for his chest.

And this whole thing really sums Pete up perfectly, in Patrick’s mind: going out of his way, even putting himself in potential danger, just to make someone he cares about happy. For all his infuriating behaviors and fixations and self-destructive tendencies, Pete is the most empathetic, selfless person Patrick’s ever met.

Which is why Patrick might be a tiny bit in love with him. But. That’s the last thing he can afford to worry about tonight.

Once they’ve hugged for a good minute, Pete finally pulls away. He looks Patrick over with something like pride in his eyes and reaches up to straighten out the cap on his head, moving the tassel to the correct side again. “Nervous?” he asks, hopping up to sit on one of the desks behind him. “I remember I was.”

Patrick tugs on his robe sleeves again and nods. “Kinda,” he mutters, staring down at his shined shoes. “Fucking hate having to walk across a stage in this stupid robe just to get a piece of paper that says I don’t have to go to school anymore.”

“Think of it as practice for your career,” Pete says with a reassuring grin. “Soon you’ll be making your living on stages all over the world, dude.”

Patrick just sighs. Fall Out Boy is fun and all, but there’s no guarantee it’ll last. They can’t even find a drummer who wants to stick around for more than three gigs. Pete’s buddy Andy Hurley seems like a cool guy, but who knows how long he’ll stick around? “You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do.” Pete claps a hand on Patrick’s shoulder and squeezes gently. “Trust me, Patrick, your voice is gonna sell out fucking stadiums.”

The teenager looks up at him, grateful but doubtful as always. Sometimes he forgets he’s the golden-voiced golden ticket who inspired Pete to _drop out of DePaul University_ —no matter how much negative shit he says about himself, he knows Pete will always refute it. Still, sometimes he can’t help but be terrified that he ruined Pete’s chance at a “normal” life and a viable, steady career.

As if he can read Patrick’s mind, Pete repeats, “Trust me.”

Patrick sighs again and rubs the back of his neck, shrugging. “My mom still made me fill out the Common App,” he says softly. “She’s gonna send it out for me in the fall while we’re on tour. A semester off is cool with her, but…she doesn’t seem to think Fall Out Boy is gonna last long.”

“As much as I love your mom, she’s dead fucking wrong about that.” Pete tugs Patrick closer to him and slings an arm around his shoulders, turning him towards the window he just climbed through.

“See that?” the bassist asks, pointing at the sun starting to set behind the trees bordering the parking lot.

Patrick nods, blinking the blurriness out of his contacts. He manages to crack a small smile at the sheer beauty of the radiant oranges, yellows, and reds slowly spreading across the purple early-summer sky. “’S really pretty,” he murmurs, unable to think of anything else to say—Pete’s always been the wordsmith of the band.

Pete nods in agreement. “Well _that_ ,” he explains, turning to look at Patrick seriously, “is _you_ , ‘Trick. You’re the sunset. You’re different every night but your magnetism, your talent, never changes. People could listen to you sing every day for three years and they’d never get the same show twice, but they’d always be getting something beautiful, something noteworthy, something—something worth _painting_.”

A gentle scoff is the only thing Patrick can think of as a response to that, but Pete shushes him. “I mean it,” he insists as he nudges Patrick’s chin up with his knuckles so their eyes meet again. “You’re a fucking sunset. Your face, your voice, just. Everything about you. And people never get tired of the sunset, so why would they ever get tired of you?”

“’Cuz I’m a sweaty short guy who can’t sing in front of more than ten people without a hat over my eyes?” Patrick teases, trying to distract himself from the way his heart is racing and his face is reddening from being so close to Pete’s.

“ _Shut the fuck_ —seriously, dude, that’s not how people see you at _all_.” Pete gently turns Patrick’s face back to the window. “They see that. _I_ see that. Every time you smile or laugh or open your mouth to sing with that golden fucking voice. You’re a sunset. Sunsets don’t doubt themselves, and they don’t waste four years and rack up thousands of dollars in debt for a degree they aren’t even passionate about. They do what they love for as long as they can, and they spread love while they do it.”

Pete leans in and kisses Patrick’s temple gently, making it harder for Patrick to swallow down the growing lump in his throat. “Trust me, Patrick,” the older boy whispers. “You’re gonna paint the world orange. And I hope I’m lucky enough to get to watch you do it.”

“Can’t do it without you,” Patrick says immediately, looking back up at Pete’s face. “I _won’t_ do it without you, Pete. I need you to help me, ‘cuz I’m not—being a frontman isn’t something I think I can handle. I won’t sing your words unless you’re right next to me.”

An almost sad smile graces Pete’s lips, but it only encourages Patrick to wrap him up in another hug before he can say something stupid.

They stay like that for a little longer than they should. “You should get back in there,” Pete says with a fond smile when he pulls back, squeezing Patrick’s shoulders in his calloused hands. He nods towards the wall separating Patrick from the rest of his class. “If I get you in trouble on your fucking graduation night, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Yeah.” Patrick knows he should still feel nervous, but now he just wants to get the whole thing over with so he can hang out with his family and Pete afterwards. “Try not to get kicked out before I walk, okay, asshole?”

“I’ll do my best,” the bassist promises with a wink and a grin, and fuck. Patrick really doesn’t need jelly knees right now. Seems like the sentimentality of before is gone, replaced by Pete’s usual strange humor. “Look for me in the crowd. I’ll be the one streaking down the aisle with ‘STUMPY’ painted on my chest.”

“If you embarrass me while I’m being handed my goddamn diploma, Wentz—”

“Don’t worry, I won’t be _completely_ naked. I found this blue thong that matches the—”

 _“Pete.”_ God, Patrick loves him. But he’s also a fucking nuisance. “The entrance to the auditorium is down this hall and to the right. Follow the signs.”

“Gotcha. See you soon, ‘Tricky.” Pete leans over, lays a smacking kiss on Patrick’s cheek, and scampers out of the room cackling before Patrick can punch him.

Luckily no one notices Patrick’s scarlet face when he re-integrates himself back into the seething mass of hormones and blue polyester. Five minutes later, when the class starts their orderly march to the auditorium, Patrick isn’t surprised to find that he isn’t all that scared anymore.

 

* * *

 

The ceremony itself is…well. Ceremonial. The principal and the superintendent speak for a bit, and the commencement address is given by a student’s rich, successful father who also happens to have paid for some upcoming gym renovations. Patrick can’t help but roll his eyes at the clichéd “never give up” and “this is the beginning of the rest of your life” lines. He knows Pete could’ve written something much more impactful in probably half the time it took for this gray-haired businessman to write his mediocre lecture.

Walking across the stage to receive his diploma isn’t as terrifying as Patrick thought it would be. He doesn’t trip and his palms aren’t too sweaty when he shakes the Principal’s hand and accepts the leather folder with Glenbrook South’s emblem embossed in gold on the front. He’s so focused on getting it over with that he almost misses the obnoxious whooping and applauding from one single audience member when his name is called. Blushing, he glances towards the crowd and sees Pete standing up in the middle aisle of seats, next to Patrick’s beaming mom. _I’m gonna kill him_ he thinks, but instead he plans on punching him really good in the shoulder later.

When it’s all over, the students gather outside in the parking lot to hug their family members and thank their favorite teachers. Patrick only thanks one: his band director Mr. Wojcik, who says he’s proud of him and can’t wait to buy his first album. Patrick promises to get the whole band to sign it for him.

His mom, dad, stepdad and siblings all lavish him with affection and Patrick can’t help but smile so wide his face hurts when he realizes that he’s _done_. He’s finally done with school, with tests and math and homework and textbooks he never reads. It’s the most liberating thing he’s ever felt. “I can’t believe it!” he shouts over the loud din of voices surrounding him. His mom just smiles tearfully and draws him into another loving embrace.

For some reason, Pete is the last one to show up to the powwow. Patrick finally sees him weaving his way through the crowd towards them about ten minutes later, and he’s holding a slightly crumpled yellow rose. “Sorry,” he says as he approaches, handing the flower to Patrick. “Had to steal it from a bouquet. Dropped it a couple times.”

“I love it,” Patrick says before he can stop himself, looking at Pete with an expression he hopes isn’t too utterly transparent. The older boy smiles wide, and Patrick hugs him tighter than he’s hugged anyone all night.

“Thanks so much for coming,” he murmurs in Pete’s ear. “I mean it.”

“Like I said,” Pete whispers back, smiling against Patrick’s shoulder, “that’s what best friends do.”

When they break apart, Patrick turns around to see odd but amused expressions on Megan, Kevin, and his mom’s faces. “What?” he asks, defensive, as he smooths out his robe.

“Nothing, honey,” his mom replies affectionately. She looks over at Pete and smiles. “We’re glad you could make it, Pete. It’s nice to see you.”

“Always happy to spend time with the Stumphs,” Pete says. He hooks an arm around Patrick’s shoulders and Patrick’s heart flutters annoyingly. “Hey, why don’t we go get ice cream in town to celebrate? I’ll buy.”

“Pete!” Patrick nudges him, glaring. “You have, like, zero money.”

“Well, maybe I worked a double shift on Monday so I could treat my best friend and his family to some fu—freakin’ ice cream.”

“Seriously, you don’t have to—”

“Rick, come on,” Meagan chimes in. “Let him be nice to you.” Patrick sighs and glances at their mother, who nods.

“Fine,” he grumbles at last, and Pete cheers happily. It’s hard to stay frustrated after that.

 

* * *

 

They end up at the only place in town that serves cinnamon ice cream “because I know it’s your favorite, ‘Tricky!”, Pete explains. Patrick blushes and mutters a quiet but sincere “thank you” between spoonfuls, squished into a small booth between him and Kevin. There’s small talk, jokes about Patrick’s high school years, and some discussion of the band. Patrick explains Joe’s plan to buy a van for them to tour in, instead of having two cars and two trailers to haul them and their equipment around the country. Pete promises to keep Patrick safe on the road, which his parents appreciate and his siblings give him shit for. It’s a pleasant outing, and they all thank Pete for his generosity several times.

Once they’ve all had their fill of dessert, Pete asks Patrick’s parents out of nowhere if he and Patrick can hang out for the rest of the night. Patrick is about to object, knowing they would probably prefer the family spend the night together, but his mom says yes. “Go have fun on your first night as a ‘free adult’,” she tells him, smiling knowingly in that way all mothers seem to have mastered. “Just be safe. And no drinking, if you can help it.”

“Sweet!” Pete hugs Patrick around the shoulders excitedly while Patrick laughs and tries to push him off. “What time should I return him?”

“Oh, we trust you with him,” Mr. Stumph replies. “If it gets to be past two, just bring him back tomorrow morning.”

That shouldn’t be surprising, because god knows Patrick’s spent the night at Pete’s downtown apartment several times—band practice and writing sessions sometimes require it—but he’s still a little confused. Still, it means more time with Pete, so he decides not to question it.

Patrick gives his mom his cap and gown before climbing into Pete’s beat-up old green Corolla. He only thinks to ask where they’re headed five minutes after they’ve pulled away. “Someplace really special,” Pete says, turning to smile at him. “I know you’ll like it.”

“Is it downtown?” Pete nods. “Then yeah, I’m sure I will.” Patrick’s always up for exploring Chicago, even at nine p.m. on a Thursday. Especially when Pete’s with him—the older boy seems to know even more about the city than Patrick, which is hard to accomplish.

Pete drives south while Patrick stares out the passenger’s side window, watching headlights fly by on the highway in countless blurs of light. Something under the hood of Pete’s car is making a soft, rhythmic clanking sound, and instead of being concerned Patrick starts to tap along to it on the center console. His mind conjures up a simple bassline and he starts to hear snares and a guitar riff in his head; before he knows it, he’s opening his eyes and Pete’s looking at him adoringly. His hand is resting on Patrick’s forearm, heavy and warm.

“You were humming,” he says, voice soft and dripping with fondness.

“Oh.” Patrick clears his throat, glancing away shyly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. ‘S beautiful.” Pete’s hand moves to cover Patrick’s. It squeezes, holds on, and lets go after a few seconds. “Sorry if you’re bored. We’re almost there, I promise.”

“Okay,” Patrick says, voice trembling a bit. He wants to reach over and pluck Pete’s hand off the steering wheel and tangle their fingers together _so fucking bad_ , but. There’s about a million and three reasons why he shouldn’t. The most important ones are 1) Pete’s ridiculously out of Patrick’s league; 2) Pete could have literally anyone he wanted in the entire city with a face and body like his, so why would he ever go for short, soft, sweaty Patrick; and 3) Starting an intra-band relationship before their band’s even really taken off would be the textbook definition of a Bad Idea.

It doesn’t matter that they’ve been virtually inseparable since they met last summer at Patrick’s house, when the idea of having a real band was still a pipe dream. It doesn’t matter that they’re polar opposites who shade in each other’s missing colors. It doesn’t matter that sometimes Pete will look at Patrick in a certain way, the way he did just now, that makes it seem like Patrick’s stifled, constantly beaten-down feelings may be reciprocated. None of that _matters_.

At least, that’s what Patrick tells himself.

He goes back to drumming his fingers on the console, humming quietly just to watch the small grin spread over Pete’s face as he drives. The orange streetlights make his amber eyes look gold in the dark, and Patrick has to consciously remind himself not to stare.

A little over an hour after leaving Glenview, Pete pulls into a parking garage off of Lake Shore Drive. “Is this it?” Patrick asks as he climbs out of the car, rolling the sleeves of his dress shirt up to his elbows.

“Nope! It’s only a couple blocks away,” Pete says. He grabs a backpack out of the trunk, then locks the car. “Don’t worry, it’ll be worth the walk.”

Patrick grimaces, curling his toes in the stiff, shiny dress shoes he’s still wearing. He misses his ratty Converse. “I hope so.”

They cross Grand at a crosswalk but jaywalk across Lake Shore, laughing and running as fast as they can while cars fly past them and honk their horns. Patrick knows it’s stupid as they jump the guard rails, but he has Pete by his side, and he knows nothing bad could ever happen to him if Pete’s with him.

“You’re crazy!” he shouts, cackling and panting for breath. Pete only grins a manic grin and nods in agreement.

Their destination is on the other side of the street, and it’s not like it’s somewhere Patrick’s never been before. “Ohio Street beach?” he asks when he catches up to Pete. “I mean, not that it isn’t nice or anything, but I’m pretty sure it closed at dusk—”

“This isn’t it,” Pete interjects. “C’mon.”

They cross the cold sand barefoot, carrying their socks and shoes in their hands. Pete giggles when Patrick splashes him with lake water and shoves at him so he almost falls in. Lingering on the beach doesn’t appear to be Pete’s plan, though—when they reach the edge of the sand, they climb up a short grassy slope and find themselves on a normal concrete sidewalk lined with trees and lampposts on either side. It’s a wide rectangular jetty, extending for a good distance out into the lake, and Pete takes Patrick’s hand as they walk towards the end.

“Milton Lee Olive Park,” the bassist explains. “Named after the first black man to receive the medal of honor. He fought in Vietnam.”

“Cool,” Patrick says, genuinely intrigued and trying to focus on something other than Pete’s hand in his. “Is that why you brought me here?”

“Eh, not really. I just like the view. But the history is pretty cool, too.” Pete smiles to himself and Patrick doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone as beautiful as Pete Wentz lit up by dim lampposts in a lakefront Chicago park at ten p.m. “It did close a few hours ago, though, so if you see any cops—”

_“Pete!”_

“It’s _okay!_ It’s not like we’re two drunk assholes who came here to puke and piss all over everything. We’ll only stay for awhile.”

Patrick’s about to insist they leave _now_ before they get arrested when Pete exclaims, “Here!” and tugs Patrick off the sidewalk. They’re right beside a concrete platform, probably an observation point, but Pete leads them down onto the giant limestone rocks lining the jetty. He ducks down under the edge of the platform and Patrick has no choice but to follow.

“Pete,” Patrick says again when they’re sitting huddled together on the rocks. It smells like lake water and seaweed, but thankfully the usual fishy smell is absent. “We’re gonna get in huge trouble if someone finds us down here. I literally _just_ graduated.”

“I know,” Pete says, turning towards him as he takes off the backpack and sets it beside them. Patrick can hardly make out his face in the dark. “That’s the whole reason we’re here in the first place. Look.”

Patrick looks, and his breath leaves his lungs when he finally notices what he’d completely forgotten about: Chicago’s skyline. They can’t see the whole city from here, but the Hancock and its neighbors are plainly visible, glittering and towering over the still, dark waters of Lake Michigan below them. The teenager isn’t sure what it is, exactly, about seeing the city lit up at night that consistently leaves him speechless no matter how many times he’s seen it before. All he knows is he’s a sucker for a good view of his hometown, and Pete’s definitely found one.

“Wow,” he whispers, leaning against Pete’s shoulder a bit. “I love it.”

“Kinda makes you forget we’re technically trespassing, doesn’t it?” Pete unzips the backpack and pulls out some Red Vines and a couple beers. “I brought snacks, too.”

Patrick glances down and rolls his eyes, collapsing further against Pete’s side. “Too good for meeee,” he whines, reaching for one of the bottles. “Seriously, Pete, this is…thank you.”

“Anything for you, Rickster,” Pete says, dropping a kiss to the top of Patrick’s head. After a pause, he reaches into the backpack again and brings out Patrick’s green knit beanie. “That reminds me, I thought you’d want this after wearing that cap.”

Patrick grins and takes it from him, tugging it down over his unruly ginger-blonde hair. “Perfect.”

“Yeah,” Pete murmurs, watching him with a faraway look in his dark eyes. “Perfect.”

They sip their beers and nibble on candy for god knows how long, staring at the city and the water and talking about pointless things. Pete tells a few stories from his days at New Trier about ditching classes freshman year to smoke with seniors, and Patrick counters them with tales about getting yelled at by the music teacher for criticizing his song choices for almost every concert. It really solidifies the knowledge that _Patrick is done with high school._ He might even be done with school in general, now, if Pete’s blind faith in Fall Out Boy pays off.

It’s…kind of a harrowing thought.

“I’m not a high schooler anymore,” he says softly, staring down at the indigo water lapping at the rocks below them. He tosses a pebble and breaks the calm of the surface, watching the ripples as they spread outwards and wondering if what Pete said about him painting the world orange will ever be true. “I still feel like one.”

Pete nods in understanding and gently bumps Patrick’s shoulder with his own. “So do I, sometimes,” he says.

“I’m still just a kid. Fuck, Pete, we’re _kids._ ” Patrick meets Pete’s eyes and shakes his head a bit. “I’m an eighteen-year-old music nerd and you’re a twenty-three-year-old Subway manager. How the fuck are we gonna change the world with our music like we want to?”

Pete just looks at the younger boy like he’s speaking Latin. “Patrick,” he says, soft but firm, determined, “we already have.”

Patrick shakes his head again. “I don’t—”

“No, listen to me. We _have_.” Pete sets his drink down on a nearby flat rock and digs around in the backpack until he finds yet another important item: a copy of their demo. “We’ve written songs, recorded them, and performed them, and people _like_ them. When we play tiny, shitty shows for the same fifty people three nights in a row, and they sing our words back to us, that’s our proof. That’s something that only happens to really lucky people, especially in the music industry. Our songs are changing lives, and that means they’re changing the world too.” He tucks the cassette back into the bag and takes Patrick’s hand, squeezing tight to make the other boy look at him. “It might not be on the biggest scale right now, but trust me, that will change. Soon we’ll be playing real venues, and recording full-length records with a real fucking label, and after that who knows what we’ll do? Instead of just changing lives, we might be able to _save_ some, too. I might be the manager of a fast food restaurant and you might be a recent high school graduate, but y’know what else we are?”

“Naïve kids with a wild dream?” Patrick asks quietly, heart pounding.

“Yes, but more than that. We’re musicians, man.” Pete squeezes Patrick’s hand again and points at the gleaming buildings along the lakefront before them. “We’re fuckin’ _rock stars._ And we’re gonna own this city one day. We’ll be a household name. They’ll add a star to the fucking Chicago flag for us, just you wait.”

He grins at Patrick in that special way he reserves for no one else. “And you? You’re our golden voice. One day, when people think of this city, they’ll hear you singing in their head before they can think of anything else. Yeah, you’re young, but holy _shit_ are you talented. You’ve got more talent than anyone I’ve ever met—more than anyone else we could get to join the band. And I’m not gonna rest for a single day until the whole fucking _world_ knows your name.”

God. What’s Patrick even supposed to say to that? All he can do is stare at Pete’s earnest face and try to hold back the tears brimming in his eyes. Pete Wentz is the only person who’s ever been able to make Patrick feel special, and he seems to be going all-out tonight. It’s a little overwhelming.

“They’ll know yours, too,” he whispers finally, voice tight. Building up his courage, he leans in and rests their foreheads together. His heart skips when he hears the soft gasp Pete makes over the reticent crashing of waves around them. “We’re a team. You, me, Joe, and whoever else we get. We’re in this together.”

“You could do without me,” Pete mumbles, looking away. “I barely know how to play my goddamn bass anyway.”

“I _wouldn’t_ do it without you.” In a sudden wave of boldness, Patrick reaches up with the hand Pete isn’t still holding and tangles it in the soft, short curls at the nape of Pete’s neck. Pete looks back up at him in surprise, but doesn’t pull away. “Didn’t you hear me before? You and I are a package deal, asshole. If I’m sunset, you’re sunrise.”

And. Fuck. Their noses are almost touching, and Pete is being so quiet, watching Patrick’s face closely like he’s afraid to spook him. Patrick bites his lip, tugging gently on Pete’s hair with shaking fingers, and decides to do something completely sappy and stupid.

Maybe it’s the faint buzz he has from the single beer he’s just finished, or maybe it’s the starlight on the water, but Patrick closes his eyes and starts to sing a song he knows Pete knows by heart. He hopes it’ll convey everything he’s feeling right now, after this emotionally tumultuous night.

_“My dearest friend, if you don’t mind_

_I’d like to join you by your side_

_Where we can gaze into the stars…”_

Pete’s eyes are sparkling when Patrick opens his own to look at him, and he’s gripping Patrick’s hand hard enough to bruise. After a moment, the older boy clears his throat and joins in with his raspy, slightly off-tune voice:

_“And sit together, now and forever_

_For it is plain as anyone can see_

_We’re simply—”_

They never finish the verse. Pete leans in and presses his lips to Patrick’s between words, between syllables, but Patrick couldn’t care less. The moment he’s waited for for a year is finally here, it’s _happening,_ and it’s fucking glorious. It’s Pete’s arms around his waist and his hands in Pete’s hair, gripping his shoulders, and their tongues dancing together like they were made to. Nothing in Patrick’s life has ever been this perfect, he thinks as he hums against Pete’s mouth and tilts his head to deepen the kiss. Nothing will ever measure up to this moment—no diploma or record deal or sold-out stadium show will ever make him feel the way he does right now.

And he’s perfectly okay with that.

“Fuck,” Pete huffs out when they break for air, “I’m kissing a high schooler. Fuck fuck _fuck.”_ He doesn’t stop, though, just cups Patrick’s jaw in one hand and moves his head to the perfect position.

Patrick manages a breathy laugh and grips the front of Pete’s t-shirt in his trembling hands, holding on for dear life. “’M not a high schooler anymore, remember?” he pants, nipping at Pete’s bottom lip. He doesn’t have a whole lot of kissing experience, but surprisingly, he and Pete seem to be on equal footing. They giggle as their teeth clack together.

“Oh yeah, right.” Pete seems to take that as an invitation to tug Patrick into his lap, which is difficult when they’re sitting on slightly unstable rocks. They both ignore that detail so Pete can tear his mouth away from Patrick’s to latch onto Patrick’s jaw, kissing and nibbling a bit.

Patrick gasps softly and flings an arm around Pete’s neck to keep himself balanced. “Dork,” he breathes, grabbing Pete’s chin gently and bringing their lips back together. A thrill shoots up his spine when Pete melts into him. “You’re such a dork. And I love you for it.”

And, oh. Holy fuck. Holy _fuck_ , he’s said it. His deepest-darkest secret is now out in the open, carried on the wind to blow over the entire fucking city. It makes him stiffen in Pete’s lap, breath catching in his chest as he prepares to panic. _No no no no no—_

But without missing a beat, Pete lets out a relieved-sounding whimper and kisses Patrick harder. “Thank god,” he whispers, swiping their tongues together like it’s the only thing he ever wants to do for the rest of his life. “Thankgodthankgod, _Patrick,_ I love you too.”

Patrick was wrong. The feeling of their first kiss minutes ago has already been topped.

 

* * *

 

They don’t see each other for a week and a half after that, with Pete working and Patrick going all over the city for graduation parties. They text, though. Constantly. Patrick doesn’t think he’s ever used his phone this much since he got it last year, and he apologizes to his parents repeatedly for using up their entire messaging plan in four days. He tells them it’s because of “band stuff”—his parents may be open-minded about what _other_ people get up to, but when it’s their own kid, they’re considerably less tolerant. If Patrick told them he made out with and is now sorta-maybe-probably dating a 23-year-old man, even if that man is Pete, there would be some blowback.

So. They text. They don’t outright talk about that night, but there’s an undercurrent to every conversation they have now and Pete is much more generous with his compliments about Patrick’s face and voice and _everything._ Patrick even works up the courage to return some of them, which results in pleased key smashes and copious amounts of smiley and heart emoticons from his best friend. Each message leaves Patrick both confident and confused about the precise state of their relationship, but he ignores that dilemma for now. He wants to cling to this state of euphoria for as long as he possibly can.

Patrick’s own grad party is at his house on the Saturday after his graduation, and of course his mom invites Pete. Joe is on the list, too, which is nice—Patrick hasn’t seen him much in the past few weeks. He’s looking forward to reconnecting with the guitarist, but mostly he’s anxious about seeing Pete again. Are they going to talk about things? Will Pete treat him differently now? Hell, will Pete even show up? Patrick hopes things are okay between them if he does. Pete seems mostly the same from his texts, besides the extra compliments, but texting and seeing each other in real life are obviously very different.

The day of the party rolls around at last, and Patrick tries not to have a total freakout when he sees Pete’s Corolla pull up and park in front of his house. He’s the fourth guest to arrive, after Patrick’s grandparents and Joe. The party isn’t huge, just a few close family members and the band, but Patrick doesn’t mind. He’s never been the most social person.

Joe looks over at Patrick from where he’s sitting next to him on the living room couch, seeming to sense the sudden tension in the air. “Everything okay?” he asks, glancing between the window and Patrick’s face. “What happened, did you two have an argument over chord progressions again?”

“What? No.” Patrick sighs and shakes his head, heart beating hard and fast behind his ribs. He bites his lip and laughs softly as he watches Pete get out of his car and mess with his hair for a few seconds. When he starts to make his way to Patrick’s front door, the teenager stands up from the couch. “I’ll explain later,” he promises before hurrying off to let Pete in.

He opens the heavy door before Pete can even knock. The older boy is wearing his usual attire: a faded band shirt, ripped up boot-cut jeans that hug his hips and ass a little too well, and his old Converse. He smiles his toothy, too-wide grin and brushes his choppy bangs out of his eyes. “Hey,” he says, soft and sweet.

“Hey,” Patrick echoes, unable to say anything else. He just blushes and takes in Pete’s face, analyzing the energy flowing between the two of them. There’s nothing awkward at all, really, but it’s definitely electric in a way Patrick’s never felt before. He thinks he likes it.

They stand there staring at each other for a good ten seconds before Pete steps inside and closes the door behind himself. He reaches out, takes Patrick’s hand, and pulls him in for a hug without another word. Patrick melts into it a bit, tucking his face into Pete’s neck and breathing in his heady, comforting scent. He fists his hands in Pete’s shirt and shivers a little when he feels Pete’s heart hammering against his chest, racing just as fast as Patrick’s.

“I’m nervous, too,” the bassist murmurs in Patrick’s ear, and Patrick marvels for the millionth time at Pete’s ability to read his mind like some kind of clairvoyant. “Mostly I’m just glad to be able to touch you again. Texting is one thing, but. I like this better.”

Some of Patrick’s anxiety flows out of his body and he relaxes further in Pete’s arms. “Me too,” he whispers.

Pete hums softly and pulls back just far enough to rest their foreheads together, making Patrick’s breath catch in his throat for a moment. They just stare into each other’s eyes for several long seconds, still tangled up together, until Patrick sighs and forces himself to step away. “We can’t here,” he says, sad and quiet. “Not yet. My parents, they’d…they wouldn’t understand.” He thinks his mom might, but his stepdad and his father…

“Shh. I get it.” Pete takes Patrick’s hand again and gives it a comforting squeeze. “It’s okay. I’ll just have to keep my hands and mouth to myself until we’re alone again.”

The devilish smile on Pete’s face as he says that makes Patrick’s stomach do a somersault. He’s about to open his mouth to speak when Joe rounds the corner to greet them.

“Hey, Wentz. What’s—” He stops in his tracks, gawking at their joined hands. “—oh. Huh.”

Patrick immediately jerks back and puts a few feet of space between him and Pete, cheeks blazing with heat. “N-Nothing, ‘s nothing,” he stammers, looking anywhere but at his friends’ faces.

“Hey, Joetroh,” Pete says casually with a lot more confidence than Patrick feels. “Sorry, we were just—”

Joe shakes his head and holds up his hands in innocence. “No, dude, it’s cool,” he reassures. After a moment, he adds in a smug voice, “Didn’t know you two had finally pulled your heads out of your asses.”

Patrick finally glances back up at Joe, only to see a teasing smirk on his face. He blinks, confused. “What?”

“Oh, come _on,_ Rick. Like you don’t know the two of you are soulmates.”

Pete looks over at Patrick, leering. Patrick would punch him if he didn’t want to kiss him so bad. “Um. S-Soulmates?” That’s kind of a serious word.

“That’s right,” Pete says with a decisive nod, tangling his fingers with Patrick’s again and pulling him closer to his side. “Soulmates. Destined lovers. That’s us, ‘Tricky.”

Patrick turns to Pete and his heart melts when he sees the cautious hope behind the mirth in those amber eyes. The more he thinks, the more he realizes how well he and Pete fit most of the soulmate stereotypes: they finish each other’s sentences, communicate non-verbally, miss each other like crazy when they’re apart. Being with Pete, having Pete hold his hand like he is right now, feels as natural to Patrick as breathing. Kissing Pete last week was like discovering some long-hidden secret buried deep within himself, one that Patrick was destined to discover at some point. Ever since they met, he’s felt drawn to Pete in a way he’s never been with anyone else, like there’s an astral thread connecting their hearts and always bringing them back to each other. It should be weird, maybe even scary, but it’s just…not.

“Okay, yeah,” Patrick says after contemplating for a minute. “I guess the ‘soulmates’ label fits us pretty well.”

Pete responds with a beautiful wide grin and Patrick knows he’s right. Joe just cackles, hugs them both, and tells them if they fill their first album with love songs he’ll quit.

As they walk as a threesome through Patrick’s house to the backyard, where the real “party” is, Pete turns to Patrick and asks softly, “This does make us officially, y’know…boyfriends, or whatever, right?”

He sounds so fucking _hopeful_. Even though Patrick’s never had a real relationship and has heard each and every gruesome detail of all of Pete’s ugly breakups and post-show conquests, he can’t do anything but nod. He knows he’ll have to hide it from his family for at least a little while, but the thought of turning Pete down right now makes him want to cry. “I sure hope so,” he says confidently, even though his heart is feeling fluttery and his brain is flooded with thoughts like _Pete boyfriend Pete I have a boyfriend Pete is my boyfriend PetePeteboyfriendPete_. “I was already making plans for next Valentine’s Day in my diary.”

“Oh, I’d hate to fuck those up.” Pete leans over, presses a joyful kiss to Patrick’s cheek, and pulls away to a respectable distance as they step outside onto the backyard patio. Patrick barely registers the feeling of the wood and grass beneath his feet—in his head, he’s on a cloud.

 

* * *

 

“So you may have noticed I didn’t bring you a present,” Pete says after he’s met Patrick’s aunts, uncles, grandparents, and a couple cousins. They’d had some hot dogs and played beanbags for awhile, the usual white suburban family party antics, and now he, Patrick, and Joe are sitting in folding chairs and sipping root beers under a pop-up gazebo. It’s hot outside but not unbearable, which Patrick is happy about—he doesn’t want to have to leave his own graduation party to change out of a sweat-soaked shirt.

The teenager shakes his head and shrugs, nudging Pete’s foot with his own. “I don’t care.” He doesn’t need gifts to know Pete’s proud of him.

“I still have one for you.” Pete sips his drink, watching Patrick’s stepdad grilling something across the yard. “Couldn’t really wrap it, though, so it’s at my apartment.”

He says it so casually that Patrick doesn’t even pick up on the implication. Joe does, though, and he almost spits a mouthful of soda into his lap. “Seriously, guys? I’m right here!”

Pete chuckles an apology while Patrick looks between the two of them, baffled. “What? What did he mean?”

“Two words, man: sex den,” Joe says, and Patrick’s face turns scarlet in record time as his eyes flick back over to Pete. Who, to his credit, tries to defend himself.

“That is _not_ what I meant,” he insists, reaching over and elbowing Joe hard in the ribs. “I just meant instead of a material present, I could give him more of an emotional—okay, so—okay. Maybe that’s kind of what I meant, but in a much more romantic and meaningful way.”

Patrick rolls his eyes, feigning exasperation, but inside his heart is pounding and skipping every other beat. “Joe,” he says, glancing meaningfully at the other teenager, “d’you mind, uh—?”

Joe is standing up from his chair before Patrick finishes his request. “Way ahead of you.” He walks away to the snacks table, which Patrick knows will keep him occupied long enough for him and Pete to have a chat.

Pete is apologizing before Patrick can even open his mouth, though: “I’m sorry, ‘Trick, I didn’t mean to sound so crude, I-I just had something special planned to celebrate for you and I know it probably came off as insensitive and I’m—”

“Hey.” Patrick cuts Pete off and takes his hand, glancing around the yard to make sure no one’s watching or listening to them. “It’s okay, really. I know you like grand gestures and everything, and that’s cool, I just—I’m not used to them myself. And also, um.”

His blush is reinvigorated as he drops his gaze, clears his throat, and admits softly, “I’ve never, like. Gone beyond kissing. With anyone. So, yeah.” God, he can’t believe they’re having this conversation _here,_ of all places, with Patrick’s _grandparents_ twenty feet away.

To his surprise, the shocked-slash-confused reaction Patrick expects from Pete never comes. Instead, the bassist squeezes his hand gently and tilts Patrick’s chin up with his free one so they’re looking at each other again. He smiles, understanding. “That’s okay, ‘Trick,” he says, hushed and reassuring. “I mean, you’ve told me before you don’t have as much experience as I do. It’s not a problem at all.”

“I’m not worried about it being a problem.” Patrick looks down again, fiddling with the hem of his button-up blue-and-white plaid shirt with his free hand. “I just wanted to be honest. And to let you know we should probably, like, go slow at first.” He smirks a little and bites his lip. “Not that I’m not flattered by the thought of you trying to seduce me as a fucking graduation present.”

“Thought I already had you seduced,” Pete teases, squeezing Patrick’s hand again. “Also, I’m more than cool with going slow. Seems like every one of my past relationships went way too fast, so. Slow would be a nice change. _And_ now that I know our first time together will be your first time _ever,_ I have another excuse to make it as special as possible.”

Patrick smiles and looks away, bashful. He wishes he could kiss Pete here—he’s been dying to do it again ever since his graduation night—but he settles for stroking the back of Pete’s hand with his thumb. “Too good to me,” he murmurs.

“No such thing,” Pete insists, ducking his head to meet Patrick’s eyes. “’Sides, I love you, remember? Spoiling you is part of the deal.”

It’s the first time either of them has said it since last week, and it makes Patrick feel like he’s floating again. He sighs and glances up at Pete with what is probably a ridiculously soppy look on his face and lets that speak for itself. Pete gets the message: he checks to make sure the coast is clear, then brings Patrick’s hand to his mouth for a brief but genuine kiss.

Joe apparently takes that as his cue to return, because he’s sitting back down in his chair beside them moments after Pete takes his lips away from Patrick’s knuckles. “Careful, guys,” he warns, but his eyes are sparking with humor. “Wouldn’t want to offend Grandma Stumph’s delicate sensibilities.”

Patrick rolls his eyes as Pete throws his head back with a braying laugh. Their hands are still linked, in plain view of the whole party, but neither of them makes any move to separate.

 

* * *

 

The party guests are pretty much gone by nine p.m., since most of them are over 50. Patrick thanks each one of them for coming and tells them he’ll send out thank-you notes in the mail by next week, just to make his mother happy. He hugs Joe goodbye half an hour later with a promise to bring his vinyl copy of _Dookie_ to band practice on Monday, then waves as Mrs. Trohman drives him away.

Finally, it’s just Patrick, Pete, and Patrick’s immediate family left to tidy up the backyard. No one asks why Pete is the only one who’s stayed, but Patrick catches a knowing glint in his sister’s eyes at one point. He just throws an empty plastic cup at her.

Once they’ve wrangled all the trash into four huge bags and dragged them out to the front curb, Patrick casually asks if he can spend the night over at Pete’s. “He just got the new Elder Scrolls game yesterday and I’ve been _dying_ to play it, mom,” he begs, half-prepared to drop down to his knees if he has to because that’s partially the truth. “Please? I’ll be back by noon tomorrow—”

“Don’t worry, I don’t have any booze in my apartment right now,” Pete interjects at Mrs. Stumph’s raised eyebrow. “Kind of on a Straightedge kick. He’ll be safe and responsible, I promise.”

Patrick almost wants to laugh at the “responsible” part, but he holds back when he sees his mom’s accepting nod. “Okay,” she says. “I want you home no later than one in the afternoon, alright?”

“Deal.” Patrick rushes forwards, kisses his mom on the cheek, and jogs upstairs to pack a duffel bag. His heart is pounding with nervous energy as he searches his room for two matching socks and a clean pair of boxers—he knows full well that they aren’t just going to play Xbox at Pete’s. Hell, they might not touch a single controller. More likely than not, in one way or another, Patrick’s going to lose his virginity tonight.

The thought alone almost makes him drop his toothbrush in the toilet.

It’s not that he’s necessarily scared to finally have sex with someone, although there is a hint of fear lingering in the back of his mind. What if he isn’t good? What if Pete sees him naked for the first time and decides he doesn’t want him like that anymore? What if they just don’t have chemistry like that? That seems pretty impossible, given the fireworks that went off in Patrick’s whole body when he and Pete kissed, but Patrick still dreads it.

Fuck. Patrick Stump is probably going to lose his virginity to Pete Wentz tonight. He knows so many things could go wrong, but on the other hand, the thought of everything that could go wonderfully _right_ makes the concept seem less terrifying. _It’s not like you haven’t been fantasizing about sucking his dick since you drummed for Arma that one time._

With that reminder to spur him on, Patrick looks at himself in the bathroom mirror and nods sharply. He can do this. He is a _high school graduate_ —technically, if only in age, a college student. He’s ready for this. Pete will help him through any awkwardness, and it’ll be wonderful because they love each other and they’ll be doing it together. And that’s all Patrick’s ever wanted.

When he returns to his living room with his bag, the atmosphere feels…different. Pete is beaming at him unabashedly, and his mom and stepdad are smiling, too. Patrick blinks a couple times, looking back and forth between them and Pete. “What?” he asks, puzzled. “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing,” Pete assures him, drawing him in for a one-armed hug. Patrick returns it hesitantly. “We’re all just…proud of you. Our little graduate rock star.”

“Shut up,” Patrick mutters, shoving at the bassist half-heartedly. He has a feeling that’s not all that’s going on, but he’ll interrogate Pete about it later. If he remembers.

They drive off in Pete’s rickety car and Patrick reaches across the center console to hold Pete’s hand as soon as they’re off his block. Pete turns to him and grins, squeezing his fingers. “Something wrong?”

“Nah.” Patrick watches the familiar way the yellow streetlights turn Pete’s amber eyes gold and leans back in the passenger’s seat, gazing at him adoringly. “I just love you a whole lot. Didn’t get to say it earlier.”

Pete’s answering smile is a few degrees shy of splitting his face in two. “I love you, too,” he says softly as he turns back to the road. Patrick looks back out the window, but their hands remain linked, as usual.

The drive to Pete’s apartment isn’t even half an hour. When they get there, Patrick feels some of his earlier anxiety return with a vengeance. His hands and knees start to shake when he climbs out of the car and walks up to the building’s front door—whether it’s nerves or just anticipation, Patrick can’t tell. His palm sweats around the strap of his duffel as he follows Pete inside and up to the third floor. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but the teenager thinks he can feel the same tense energy radiating off of Pete in waves as they climb the stairs.

Less than a minute later, they’re in Pete’s scarcely-furnished apartment. The living room is homey, consisting of a thrift store couch, a TV resting on an overturned milk crate, an Xbox (half-covered by a collapsed stack of video game cases), and various band posters and vinyl records lining the walls. Pete’s bass rests in a stand in the corner beside a beat-up drum kit, watching them. The whole place smells like Pete’s shampoo and cologne. Everything is so heart-achingly familiar, but tonight it feels so, so different.

Pete must feel it, too. Once they’ve both kicked off their shoes and shed their jackets, he takes a deep breath and turns to Patrick, slow and almost hesitant. “So,” he says, wringing his hands in front of him in a nervous gesture Patrick has rarely, if ever, seen from him. “Um. Here we are.”

“Yep.” Patrick stares into the older boy’s dark eyes and tries to decide if he should make the first move. Instead, he clasps his hands behind his back and shrugs, looking infinitely more nonchalant than he feels. “What do we do now?”

“We could play Elder Scrolls,” Pete suggests, so dry and unironic that Patrick thinks he’s serious for a second. When he breaks out in another big, stupid smirk, Patrick almost wants to hit him.

“Mmm, maybe not.” In a rare moment of boldness, Patrick strides up to Pete and wraps his arms around his neck. Biting his lip, he blinks and leans forwards to nuzzle Pete’s nose with his own, just teasing a little. “Kinda wanna do some of this.”

Pete quirks one eyebrow and loops his own arms around Patrick’s waist, tugging him closer. Patrick lets himself be moved. “Some of what?” the bassist asks, voice hushed as though Patrick’s parents are still right around the corner.

“This,” Patrick breathes, hooded eyes closing as he eliminates the distance between his mouth and Pete’s.

It’s like coming home. Even though it’s only been nine days since Patrick last tasted Pete, it feels new and breathtaking all over again. They both gasp at that first tentative brush of lips, neither wanting to go too fast too soon, but their hesitance is soon forgotten as Pete presses forwards and grabs Patrick gently by the back of the neck, holding him in place as he slips his tongue into Patrick’s mouth. Patrick whines in the back of his throat and sucks on it, gentle, unsure, before tilting his head and pulling Pete closer as he deepens their contact. He feels dizzy, breathless, _starving_ as he tangles his fingers in Pete’s coarse, dark hair and lets himself fall into the oblivion of this kiss.

It feels like an eternity of lips and breaths and hands and teeth before Pete is tearing himself away, panting, face flushed and mouth already swollen. “My room,” he chokes out, demanding, before closing his eyes and taking a breath. When he repeats himself, it’s much more docile: “Do you want to go to my room?”

Patrick doesn’t want docile. If they wait too long to start, he might second-guess himself. To show this, he moves his hands down to Pete’s hips and grinds forwards, choking out a noise he didn’t know he could make when he feels Pete already hardening in his tight jeans. “Fuck yes,” he grits out, leaning in to nip at Pete’s smooth jaw. _Did he shave just for this?_ “Pete, please, I—take me to bed, _now.”_

“Holy shit.” Pete doesn’t need to be told twice, apparently. Without another word, he reaches down, hooks his arms under Patrick’s ass, and lifts.

Patrick yelps in surprise and immediately clings to Pete for dear life, wrapping his legs around Pete’s small waist. “Pete!” he half-shrieks, half-giggles. This is equal parts scary, funny, and sexy. “Don’t, you’ll—you better not drop me!”

“You’re not that heavy, it’s fine,” Pete assures him, though his voice is strained. He cranes up to kiss Patrick, pivots on his heel, and starts stumbling down the short hallway to his bedroom.

Right before he walks in, Pete breaks the kiss and carefully sets Patrick down. He looks almost shy as he says, “Wait here, baby, I gotta do something first.” Luckily, the pet name sends Patrick into such a pleasant spiral that he stays right where he is without question while Pete disappears into the dark room.

A few seconds later, the dim bedside lamp flicks on. Pete is standing a bit awkwardly next to the bed, smiling nervously, but that’s not what makes Patrick’s jaw drop.

On the faded blue comforter, Pete has created a large heart in orange rose petals. Not only that, the room is tidier than Patrick ever remembers it being and smells faintly of roses. It’s not too over-the-top like Patrick had feared it would be, but it’s not exactly subtle either. It’s totally Pete and utterly perfect.

Patrick approaches the bed and reaches out to pick up a single petal. He holds it between his fingertips, reverent, and looks over at Pete adoringly. “Orange?” he asks, voice hoarse with emotion.

“Your favorite color,” Pete says, like it’s simple. Patrick aches for him. “I also thought red was too…mature. Cliché.”

“Pretty sure sprinkling rose petals of any color onto a bed is cliché,” Patrick says, “but who cares.” He puts the petal back in place and walks over to Pete, wrapping himself around the older boy again. “’S that my present?”

“Part of it,” Pete replies, hiding his grin against Patrick’s neck. “The other part may or may not be a pair of very expensive Sennheiser headphones.”

On any other night, Patrick would shout and punch Pete in the shoulder repeatedly for spending so much money on him. Here and now, though, he smiles so wide his cheeks hurt and kisses the bolt of Pete’s jaw. “I love you,” he murmurs. “So fucking much. You know that, don’t you?”

Pete nuzzles Patrick’s cheek and breathes him in for a few moments. “I do. And I’m the luckiest sonofabitch on the planet because of it.”

Patrick gently pulls him back by the hair and kisses him again, tender. It’s all he can do to not burst into tears at those words.

Soon they’re both trembling and gasping into the kiss, clearly desperate for more. Patrick feels bad when he flings the covers back on the bed and the orange petals go flying everywhere, undoing Pete’s meticulous work, but Pete doesn’t seem to mind. He hugs Patrick around the waist and kisses his way up Patrick’s neck as he starts fiddling with the top buttons of his shirt. Patrick shivers, breaks the kiss, and pulls back a bit to help him.

With shaking hands, they unbutton Patrick’s shirt together and Patrick shrugs it off his shoulders. He’s left in a “vintage” black Arma Angelus tee (which he’d worn completely on purpose), and the besotted look on Pete’s face makes Patrick lean in and kiss the breath out of him again.

“As much as I love seeing you in my merch,” Pete teases, nipping at Patrick’s bottom lip, “I kinda wanna see you out of it more.”

Swallowing down a sudden surge of nerves and old, bottled-up insecurity, Patrick swallows hard and nods. “Go on,” he says, hoping his voice isn’t trembling too much. Once the clothes come off, this whole thing is going to feel so much more real.

Pete doesn’t immediately rip every scrap of fabric off Patrick’s body, like Patrick half expects him to. He’s gentle and loving as he guides Patrick to lie down on the squeaky metal-frame bed, crawling over him and kissing his mouth, cheeks, and neck. Patrick is so lost in the adoration that he barely notices Pete’s large hands slipping under his shirt and slowly lifting it off, pulling it up over his head and tossing it to the floor. When Patrick nods his consent, he goes to work on his jeans, too, unlatching the leather belt and slipping them down and off Patrick’s pale legs.

Clad in nothing but red boxer briefs, Patrick shivers in the slight chill of the room and resists the instinct to cover himself with his arms. He knows he’s obviously half-hard and Pete’s eyes keep flicking down to stare. “What?” he asks, squirming.

“Nothing.” Pete runs his hands over Patrick’s bare shoulders, his collarbones, his chest and ribs. Goosebumps rise in the wake of his reverent fingertips and the pale skin tints pink as Patrick blushes brilliantly. “You’re just…gorgeous. So fucking perfect, ‘Trick, _god_ , I can’t believe I’m allowed to have you.”

Patrick blinks up at him. “You’ve always been allowed,” he murmurs. Boldness returning, he lets his thighs fall open wide enough to accommodate Pete between them. “I…I’ve wanted this since the first time I ever saw you.”

“Wish we hadn’t been such dense fucking morons,” Pete chuckles and leans down to kiss Patrick’s sternum. “Could’ve had this from the day I first heard you sing.”

Sighing, Patrick runs his hands through Pete’s hair and realizes that Pete’s absolutely right. But they don’t have time to dwell on the what-ifs and could’ve-beens—Patrick is practically naked and Pete is still fully dressed, which needs to be remedied as soon as possible.

Pete is all too eager to strip, and he does so with a fluidity and confidence that Patrick envies. His mouth starts to water when the unfairly hot necklace of thorns tattoo is revealed, draped over Pete’s collarbones and chest. His hands migrate to it as if magnetized—he’s wanted to touch and worship this tat since the first time he caught a glimpse of it last summer. Pete had worn a tank top to practice and Patrick had hidden a boner behind his guitar through the whole session, his hormonal teenage mind instantaneously coming up with several dirty scenarios starring the body art.

Tracing the lines of dark ink with his fingertips, Patrick murmurs, “You should get more. Tattoos, I mean.”

“I’m planning on it.” Pete nuzzles Patrick’s neck and nips at his soft skin. “Gonna have full sleeves one day.”

The thought of Pete’s gorgeous tan skin covered in swirls of ink makes Patrick shudder. “Can’t wait.” In a moment of inspiration, he presses his mouth to the thorns, licking and nibbling at the skin—he hopes it feels good. He’s kind of winging this whole thing, but if Pete’s shaky gasps are any indication, he must be doing a halfway decent job.

Things only escalate from there. Patrick finds himself _pleading_ for friction after a mere thirty seconds of Pete toying with his nipples, rubbing and sucking at them with practiced motions. “D-Didn’t know it would feel like that,” he pants when Pete asks him if he’s okay. “’S good, so good, but I— _please_ —” He rolls his hips up against Pete’s, gasping when a shock of pure arousal shoots up his spine at the feeling of Pete’s hard, clothed cock pressing against his own.

Pete makes a choked-off sound in the back of his throat and grinds down in response, nodding. “Yeah, okay, I’ve got you,” he says, a bit breathless. Biting his lip, he braces himself on his elbows above Patrick, stares down at him with dark, heady eyes, and starts moving his hips at a steady pace. Patrick squeezes his eyes shut and wraps his arms around Pete’s strong shoulders as waves of unfamiliar, electrifying sensations roll over him.

For all the times Patrick pictured what sex with someone—sex with Pete—would feel like, nothing could’ve prepared him for the feel of another body hot and heavy and shaking above him, another voice gasping and moaning softly in his ear, a pair of foreign-but-familiar hands touching him everywhere and unravelling each of his seams one by one. He hadn’t anticipated how earth-shatteringly raw and devastatingly _hot_ it would be to feel Pete’s cock throbbing and leaking against his own, even through two thin layers of cotton. With every merciless downward push of Pete’s hips, Patrick lets out a breathy little _“ah”_ and loses a little more of his grip on reality. It’s surreal and beautiful and Patrick wants to let it destroy him.

He doesn’t, though. When he recognizes the telltale drop in his stomach, he tightens the loop of his legs around Pete’s waist and forces him to go still. “Pete,” he chokes out, sweat-soaked and hazy with endorphins. His clumsy hands find their way to the bassist’s shoulders and push him back a few inches, far enough so they can lock eyes.

“What? What’s wrong?” Pete asks, clearly dangling off the edge himself but still concerned for Patrick’s comfort. His hair is a mess and his face is bright pink and Patrick doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone’s eyes look that dark. “Do you need to stop?”

Patrick actually whines at the thought of stopping and shakes his head vehemently. “No, no, I’m okay,” he insists. He licks his lips and glances away for a moment, embarrassed by his next words. “’S just…I was about to c-come and I don’t want to until I’ve touched you.”

It takes a moment for Patrick’s words to sink in, but as soon as they do, Pete melts. _“Yesss,”_ he hisses, grinding down one more time before carefully extracting himself from Patrick’s octopus hold. “Patrick, _fuck_ , yes, want that.” He flops down onto his back and pulls Patrick on top of him in a reversal of their previous positions.

Patrick stares down at him, uncertain, straddling one of his legs. Pete’s perfectly sculpted, sweaty torso is completely on display for him, and it’s more than a little overwhelming. “I—”

“It’s okay, ’Trick.” Canting his hips up a bit, Pete stares into Patrick’s eyes and whispers hoarsely, “Take off my boxers.”

Patrick has to tear his eyes away from Pete’s heaving chest before he can grand that request. He moves his hands to the elastic waistband hugging Pete’s hips and tugs it down, swallowing hard when Pete’s substantial cock springs free and rests heavily against his stomach. The head is flushed a dark pink and Patrick can hardly wait for the damp boxers to hit the floor before he’s wrapping his hand around it and pulling once, experimental.

Pete’s eyes slip closed and his brow creases in concentration. He throbs in Patrick’s grip. “Yeah, keep—that’s good,” he gasps, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth again.

Letting out a shaky breath, Patrick watches Pete’s face contort with pleasure as he establishes a sloppy rhythm. The tricks he likes to use on himself seem to work for Pete, too, so he utilizes them as best he can: swiping his thumb over the leaking head, twisting his wrist on the upstroke, tracing the slit with a gentle fingertip. Patrick’s impressed he has enough brain power left to do those things from this weird angle.

A minute and a half of this delicious torture is all Pete can take. Just when his noises and curses start coming out more desperate and high-pitched, he reaches down and grabs Patrick’s wrist, panting. “Holy shit, you’re good at that,” he says with a breathless little laugh, staring up at Patrick in awe. “My turn now.”

Before Patrick knows what’s happening, he’s on his back again, and Pete’s pulling his underwear down. Patrick blushes darker than he has all night and hides his face in Pete’s neck, shy. Objectively, he knows there’s nothing to be insecure about when it comes to his dick—he’s cut and above average for someone of his height, though Pete is still slightly bigger. Still, it’s the first time he’s ever been naked in front of someone since he was probably five years old and he has to re-calibrate his mind a bit to convince himself it’s okay.

Pete is patient, though. He kisses Patrick’s temple and rubs his sides comfortingly, reassuring him with whispered words that he’s beautiful and sexy and “the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen in my whole fucking life, Patrick, I’m serious.”

Even though Patrick can’t help but remember all the skinny, doe-eyed, makeup-covered scene kids he knows Pete’s had in the past, he lets the compliments wash over him and soak in. Eventually he relaxes enough to let Pete pull back and look at him with loving eyes.

“I’m sorry,” the teenager apologizes, playing with Pete’s hair absentmindedly. “Guess I’m the cliché ‘blushing virgin’ I always thought I’d be after all.”

“It’s okay,” Pete whispers. He kisses Patrick’s forehead and brushes some sweaty hair out of his eyes. “I was nervous my first time, too. I’m nervous right now, actually, because this is my first time with my soulmate and I really don’t wanna fuck it up.”

Patrick’s heart leaps in his chest at the word “soulmate,” even though he’s the one who decided that’s what they are. He wraps his arms around Pete’s neck and pulls him down for a soothing kiss, wanting to calm them both.

He gets so invested in the slow, steady, deep kiss that he barely registers the sensation of a strong, warm, calloused hand wrapping around his cock. When that hand gives him a good tug, he gasps loudly and breaks away from Pete’s mouth, eyes wide. “Oh—!”

“Yeah,” Pete breathes, stroking Patrick again and watching him intently. “Tell me how it feels, baby.”

Patrick hadn’t thought a handjob would feel much different than jerking himself off, but holy motherfucking _shit_ was he wrong. It feels like Pete’s wringing his soul out of him with every flick of his wrist. Lightning is coursing through his body, making every nerve feel frayed and burned out. He tries to articulate this, but all that comes out is, “It’s so—P-Pete, it’s so _good_ , don’t stop, don’tstopdon’tstop—”

“I know, ‘Trick. I won’t, I promise.” Pete leans down to kiss him, swallowing his embarrassingly loud noises as he keeps moving his hand.

Not more than a minute later, Patrick is sure he’s about to explode. Pete’s body over his and his hand on his cock and the smell of his skin surrounding him—it’s all too much, he can’t keep it in anymore, he—he’s gonna—

—And Pete takes his hand away, shushing him gently, running a hand through Patrick’s hair as the younger boy arches up and _moans,_ wanting that delicious friction back. _“Pleeease,”_ he whines, writhing helplessly, clinging to the edge by his fingernails. “Don’t—you s-said you wouldn’t—”

“Hold on, baby,” Pete whispers. “Just let me…” He reaches down with his big hand and wraps his fingers around both of them, squeezing their cocks together and picking up his strokes where he left off.

Patrick has never felt anything as intense and gut-wrenching as that sensation. He can feel everything—Pete’s callouses on his sensitive skin, Pete’s cock throbbing and leaking against his own—and it only takes ten seconds of this pleasure avalanche for him to throw his head back and come like he’s dying, spurting in long ropes between their sweat-slick bodies. A broken, high-pitched wail breaks free from his throat as ecstasy rattles every bone in his body in a way he’s never even come close to experiencing before. It’s utterly devastating, and it leaves him a weak-limbed puddle of endorphins and overwhelmed tears.

As he comes down, all Patrick can do is whimper Pete’s name and shiver with overstimulation as the bassist keeps stroking both of them. He cracks open his damp eyes and looks up at Pete’s enraptured red face, awestruck. With a ruined voice, he begs, “Come, Pete, c-come on me, please, _please.”_

“Patrick, oh, fuck— _fuck—!”_ Pete’s eyes go wide and his mouth drops open, stunned into coming. His hand stutters on their cocks and Patrick feels him come, feels his dick pulse and his jizz splatter on the overheated skin of his stomach. It’s enough to make him moan one more time and he closes his eyes, completely sated.

The feeling of a warm, damp rag running over his torso is the next thing Patrick is aware of. He opens his eyes to see Pete leaning over him with a fond, adoring smile that he can’t help but return. “Hey,” he croaks.

“Hey there.” Pete leans down for a gentle, chaste kiss while he cleans Patrick up. “How’re you feeling?”

“Mmmph. Tingly,” Patrick replies after several seconds of contemplation. He hisses and shivers when Pete runs the washcloth over his soft cock. “Loose. Like I got put through a taffy puller.”

Pete chuckles and tosses the rag to the floor. He lies down on the bed beside Patrick and pulls the covers up over them, cuddling close to the smaller boy’s side. It’s almost too natural for Patrick to roll over and wrap his arms around Pete’s middle in return. They’re both still naked and Patrick feels safe and warm and… _loved_ like he never has before. He lets himself melt against Pete completely, reveling in the feeling.

“So.” Pete kisses Patrick’s forehead and rubs his back slowly. “Was that, um. A good first time, for you?”

He sounds genuinely uncertain, like he’s actually worried he didn’t do a good job. Patrick looks up at him in befuddlement. “Pete,” he says, solemn, “that was the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt in my entire fucking _life_. Seriously, I don’t—I’ve never—”

“Shhh.” Pete captures Patrick’s lips in a sweet, meaningful kiss that leaves them both breathless. When he pulls away, he cups Patrick’s flushed cheek in his hand and smiles so earnestly it almost breaks Patrick’s heart. “I love you so much,” he murmurs, sounding as though he’s talking to himself.

“I love you too,” Patrick says, soul glowing. Then he bites his lip, a thought occurring to him from earlier in the night. “Um. Was—Was I okay? I-I mean, did I do everything right?”

“You were perfect,” Pete insists, more sincere than Patrick’s ever heard him. “The best I’ve ever had, baby.”

That makes Patrick’s breath catch in his chest. He doubts it, but he allows himself to believe it just for tonight.

They stay up for another fifteen minutes or so, trading giggly kisses and hushed words, before they both become too sluggish to stay awake. Patrick picks a rose petal out of his hair as Pete reaches over to turn off the bedside lamp, and they settle down against the pillows. Patrick nuzzles Pete’s nose in the darkness and starts to hum, knowing it helps Pete sleep; Pete tugs him as close as possible and closes his eyes.

Patrick is ten seconds from falling asleep when Pete suddenly says, “Oh! I forgot to tell you, your mom said you can stay here later than one tomorrow.”

“Hmm?” Patrick peels open his eyes and squints at Pete’s shadowy face. “When did she say that?”

“Right before we left, while you were packing your bag upstairs. Your stepdad said it was okay with him, too.”

Patrick shakes his head a bit, confused. “Why? What made them change their minds?”

Pete is silent. Patrick waits patiently for an answer, then kicks him under the blankets after ten seconds. “Pete. What did you tell them?”

“I didn’t tell them anything!” Pete insists, eyes wide and innocent. “They just…figured it out, I guess.”

“Figured _what_ out?” Patrick feels kind of sick. Do they know about this? About him?

“I-I dunno, I mean. Your mom…she told me to take good care of you,” Pete says, voice softer now. “She said…um. She asked me…if I loved you? Like, y’know, the cliché protective parent move. A-And I freaked out, internally, but I wasn’t gonna lie to your fucking _mom_ , so I just. I said yeah, I do. More than anything. And she smiled at me and said…she always knew.”

Patrick is rigid next to Pete now, tears brimming in his eyes and a complicated emotion bubbling up in his chest. “Always knew what?” he asks, barely audible.

Pete tightens his grip around Patrick’s waist and bumps their noses together. Even in the dark Patrick can tell he’s smiling. “That we would be together one day,” he replies. “I don’t really know what made her think that, exactly, but…”

Patrick thinks back to the night of his graduation and the look on his mother’s face when Pete asked if he could take Patrick out after they had ice cream. She’d seemed…amused, maybe? Knowing? But Patrick’s been so careful; he never _dreamed_ she would ever find out without him telling her. “Did you fucking _out me_ to my own mother?” he asks Pete, but there’s barely any heat behind his words. His heart is pounding hard, but it’s calming down. A moment later, he adds, “Did…did _I?”_

“I think maybe we both did?” Pete kisses the corner of the frazzled boy’s mouth. “But it’s okay, ‘Trick. She’s okay with it. She loves you—she loves both of us, and she’s totally fine with the fact that we love each other, too. That’s more than I could’ve ever asked for, honestly.”

Patrick blinks and a pair of happy, shocked tears leak from his eyes, dampening the pillow beneath his head. “Me too,” he murmurs, voice tight. He’s gonna talk to her and his stepdad when he gets home tomorrow so they can hear his side of things, but. Fuck. This might have been a surprise, but it’s not entirely unwelcome. If anything, it’s a huge weight off his and Pete’s shoulders.

“Good.” Pete kisses the tears away, holding Patrick like he’s something precious and rare. “I love you.”

And that kind of makes it all better. The teenager sniffles and nods, tucking his face into Pete’s neck and closing his eyes again. “Love you more.”

“Not a fucking chance.”

As they drift off to sleep together in Pete’s rose-scented bedroom, Patrick knows that no matter what happens with his family and the band and their lives in general, he and Pete will have each other for eternity. They’re two sides of the same coin, opposites in almost every way but the one that matters most: their hearts. Pete’s the sunrise to Patrick’s sunset.

For the first time he can remember, Patrick can’t wait till dawn.

###


End file.
